I Saw a Light
by SisterGrimmErin
Summary: "To love at all is to be vulnerable. Try telling that to the immortals." A collaboration between myself and my darling Penny, with whom I am privileged to work. Based on the 'Lovers100' prompt table B on LiveJournal.
1. 077: Almost

**I Saw a Light**

**Lovers 100 Prompt 077:**

**Almost**

**By My Pen Is Sharper Than Your Sword and Sister Grimm Erin**

**Text by Sister Grimm Erin**

"_To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket—safe, dark, motionless, airless—it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable."_

— _C.S. Lewis._

Artemis was in no mood to put up with any of her brother's nonsense, so the goddess of the Hunt asked Apollo straight out what he was doing at Zoë's funeral.

Apollo took a long drag off of his cigarette, tossed it to the ground, and replied in a blithe voice, "Your guess as good as mine, little sis." A damning response was on the tip of her tongue when she noticed her _twin's_ hands.

They were trembling as he attempted to light his next cigarette, the flame flickering. "Shit," he swore, then took a second try at it. This time, the blue flame worked. He exhaled smoke.

"That's disgusting," Artemis informed him without malice.

"Don't knock it until you've tried it," retorted Apollo. He offered it to her. She shook her head in disgust, twin braids swinging, and Apollo remembered suddenly, although he would rather forget, that she didn't just appear twelve; she was twelve in mind and body as surely as he had been seventeen for the past three thousand years. Usually he could ignore it, but in that moment she looked so very much like a good little schoolgirl, Apollo very nearly apologized for his language.

It was never a good thing to dwell upon the fact that the girl he loved more than anyone else would never be more than just that: a girl, but sometimes it was unavoidable.

Artemis turned away from him, watching the belongings of her beloved burn in sacrificial flames, and Apollo felt compelled to say something to ease her pain, but could not think of what, because it had never really occurred to him that Zoë might die and that the precarious arrangement he and his twin had had might be disrupted by her sudden and permanent absence. (Artemis loved Zoë. Apollo loved Artemis. And though he'd never admit to this, he and Zoë had been almost friends. He'd never had a friend before Zoë had waltzed out of the garden into his sister's—and therefore his—life and he was sure he never would again.)

(He was right.)

"I'm sorry for your loss," Apollo managed at last. _And for my loss – for what it means for both of us. _

He would never say this out loud, of course. The repercussions – for him and his sister – were unthinkable_._

Artemis gave him one of her rarest looks. It was a glance of entreaty, of the kind he hadn't seen in centuries. She needed his help.

A long silence stretched as Apollo tried to find the words to make his sister turn back around—but he of the easy, quick retorts, of the long, eloquent speeches, of the glib and easy lies, found that for once, he could think of no possible response.

Fortunately, she seemed to sympathize, though she did not turn her face away from the flames. "You will miss her, won't you?"

"And you won't?" replied Apollo, much more sharply than he had intended to. He tossed his cigarette butt on the ground and lit another in an attempt to appear cavalier. It was a very shaky and unsubtle cover-up that failed as soon as once noticed the tension in his body and the creases of pain around his amber eyes.

When he took the next drag, his exhale was more desperate than relieved, as though even his mortal vice could not bring him true relaxation.

It was very odd for Artemis to watch the brother who she had always thought of as infinitely capable of switching from one mood or love or obsession or addiction to another stuck on 'pause' for the very same reason she was.

For the first time since they were children, Artemis let her guard down around Apollo.

"Of course you'll miss her," the god whispered hoarsely into the silence.

"Yes," said Artemis quietly, around the lump of tears forming in her throat. Unthinking, she reached for his arm. He wrapped his arms around her stiffly as she cried for all three of them.

Finally, her tears slowed. Apollo drew black almost immediately. He could have sworn he saw hurt in her eyes.

_Impossible_.

Her next words were in a small voice he could not reconcile with the brave, daring, unconventional lady of the clamors he knew. "Truly," she whispered, barely audible, "do you not wish to…"

"To what?" Apollo asked baldly, wanting desperately to hear the phrase _be with me_ on her lips for the first time in millennia.

He regretted his tone immediately; if eyes were the window of the soul, hers had been shuttered by the coldness in his statement.

"I thought not," Artemis said, and turned away.

Before then he could more than form an almost wordless cry of despair and protest, she was walking out of the clearing to her remaining Hunters. Most of the girls did not even notice Artemis' return, let alone his presence, but a pair of blue eyes like his father's fixated on his amber eyes with the same pitying glance Zeus had often given him.

Mortified, he tossed the remnants of his pack of cigarettes on the forest floor and walked to a safe distance away from the camp.

Once Apollo was sure he could not be seen or heard, he laid on the forest floor and allowed the silent convulsions of sorrow to wrack his body. He sobbed without tears for Zoë, for his last, best, and lost chance, but mostly for himself, because the god did not believe himself capable of anything else.

Maybe he was right.


	2. 068: Mine

**I Saw a Light**

**Lovers 100 Prompt 068:**

**Mine**

**By MyPenIsSharperThanYourSword and Sister Grimm Erin**

**Text by MyPenIsSharperThanYourSword**

_"One of the hardest things in life is having words in your heart that you can't utter." _

_–James Earl Jones_

"Zoë." The voice jerks her out of her reverie, and Zoë starts at the sight of the Lady Artemis's brother, barely an arm's length from her. She bats him away – an automatic reflex – and then draws back, settling for her customary glare.

"Were you perhaps trying to give me a heart attack, Lord Apollo?" Her tone turns the title into an insult.

Apollo looks momentarily pained – and then says, in a voice laden with mischief, "Why, Zoë! Some Huntress you turned out to be, letting me sneak up on you like this."

Zoë's eyes narrow. "Very well, you caught me unawares. Now, what do you want?"

"Really, Zoë," Apollo ignores her question, "You really should update your vocabulary. No one speaks like that anymore."

"Well, pardon me," Zoë says scathingly, "it seems the world changes every time I turn my back."

Apollo's voice becomes musing, "Yes, it does seem that way, doesn't it?"

"Don't waste my time," Zoë says uncharitably, "What do you want?"

**X X X X X**

"I wish you'd let us come with you," Zoë's words were hushed.

Artemis knelt in the middle of her tent, tossing things haphazardly into a traveling bag. She could have clapped her hands and everything would've packed itself – or had Zoë do it – but Artemis disliked using magic to do menial chores – or delegating them – while on 'progress.' It detracted from the experience, she said.

The tent was already half-bare; the wall-hangings had been taken down and rolled up, and the silk cushions had been packed away. Maximillian the fawn sat curled forlornly in a corner, watching the proceedings with dewy black eyes. Max would spend the next couple weeks – however long they may be – with the rest of his brethren in the wild. Judging by the little fawn's expression, Max wasn't looking forward to the separation either, Zoë thought fondly.

The flames in the hearth flickered – the fire burnt low, and it was only a matter of time before it went out completely. Artemis did not pause or look up: "You know it isn't possible, Zoë."

Zoë bit her lip. "You keep saying that," she said quietly. "I don't see why it isn't possible."

"Zoë, it isn't like I haven't done this before." There was a note of steely calm in Artemis's voice; Zoë knew that, if pushed too far, the other girl would snap. She ignored the warning.

"It's different this time," Zoë said, also keeping her voice as calm as possible, quelling the wave of panic rising in her throat, dismissing the feeling as outrageous, "There's something wrong – Apollo said – "–"

"Zoë, I told you long ago not to listen to anything my brother says." Now a note of fond amusement colored Artemis's tone.

"He's worried about you, my Lady," Zoë said, ruthlessly squashing the beginnings of a sense of frustration. "I'm worried about you!"

Artemis raised her head, auburn hair spilling in a red-gold waterfall down her back. She gave Zoë her lieutenant a reassuring smile.

"Don't worry about me, Zoë. I'm going to be fine. Worry about how you're going to win the Capture the Flag game at camp. I'd hate it if we interrupted our winning streak."

Zoë scowled (most unladylike, her mother would've said, but she couldn't help it).

"Really, my Lady? We could beat those imbeciles with our hands tied behind our backs."

"I wouldn't be too sure: they'll have both Thalia Grace and Percy Jackson on their side, you know."

Zoë sniffed. "Thalia Grace is potentially dangerous – but Percy Jackson will cause the campers to lose any advantage she may give them."

"Well: I give you this opportunity to prove your theory," Artemis said mock-gallantly. She grinned, and Zoë gasped.

"You changed the subject, my Lady!" she cried, outraged.

The tent was empty now save for Artemis's mattress and pillow. Maximillian stepped hesitantly out of his corner and approached the pallet, sinking gracelessly down by it – a tangle of long, skinny limbs – and rested his nose on the pillow.

Artemis got to her feet. She came up to Zoë, reaching up and placing her hand on the taller girl's cheek.

"Zoë, I always come back. I promise I will always come back. You'll be here, won't you, Zoë?"

Zoë nodded and choked on a sob, her eyes glittering with tears. Artemis drew her close, her cheek on Zoë's silken head, her arms enclosing Zoë's narrow shoulders. Zoë felt the goddess's voice resound within her mind: _Courage, my huntress_.

(And for a moment, it wasn't a teenage girl who embraced her, but a woman with the experience of millennia.)

"I will take the Huntresses to Camp Half-Blood," Zoë said, as she forced a smile on her face and keeping her voice steady, tried to keep her voice steady, "I will not fail you."

"I will come back," Artemis reaffirmed softly.

"I will be here," Zoë promised.

(And this time, her smile was real.)

**X X X X X**

He comes back later, stealing into the clearing as only an Olympian is able, shaking her out of a restless, fitful slumber. When she is fully awake and as far from him as she possibly can be without actually being outside the tent, glaring daggers as only Zoë can, Apollo asks, "Well?"

His voice is quiet, serious – here, in this moment, they are, if not friends, allies, united by a mutual cause.

Zoë's glare softens; she shrugs – a helpless, frustrated gesture. "I tried, Lord Apollo."

He nods, a little smile on his face. "If you couldn't, there's nothing I can do."

"Lord Apollo – what is it that you have seen?" Zoë is stiff, her fingers curling compulsively into her palms. In the morning there will be lines scored where her nails have broken the skin.

Apollo seems to be avoiding her eye. "It will resolve itself, I'm sure." He fidgets under the strength of her scrutiny, pale artists' artist's hands clenching and unclenching nervously.

"Lord Apollo – " Zoë begins, but he cuts her off, raising his head suddenly and looking her straight in the eye. Moonlight glints off his gilded head; his equally golden eyes are inscrutable.

"And, in any case," he declares, "I will do everything I can to make sure nothing happens to her." There is a promise in every word; Zoë Nightshade knows that, if there is only one thing Phoebus Apollo is sincere about, that thing is his devotion to his sister. She relaxes, if only a little.

"You do that," she breathes. Her palms tingle as the pressure being exerted on them is released.

Apollo stands and looks down at her, sitting against the wall of her tent, silver circlet gleaming atop her dark hair. She is hugging her knees to her chest; her black braid cascading down her back, and a small grateful smile turns up the corners of her mouth.

The god of prophecy bites his lip. "Meanwhile," he tells her, "you take care of yourself, Zoë Nightshade." A flicker of something – is it pain? – momentarily flits across his face, – and then he is gone, before she can ask him what he meant, and the rustle of the tent flap is the only indication he was ever there.

Zoë sighs, lays her head down on her pillow, her request and his echoing in her head.

"You will be here, won't you, Zoë?"

(And a heartbeat later:)

"Take care of yourself, Zoë Nightshade."


	3. 016: Absurd

**I Saw a Light**

**Lover 100 Prompt 016:**

**Absurd**

**By MyPenIsSharperThanYourSword and Sister Grimm Erin**

**Text by MyPenIsSharperThanYourSword**

_The most important trip you may take in life is meeting people halfway.**  
><strong>_

"So, I hear you girls are going on a camping trip," Apollo said casually as he leaned against the rental Toyota Camry parked just outside the Empire State Building. Artemis paused in the act of stowing her ancient, Army-issue duffel into the trunk, frowning slightly at the sight of her brother, who stood with one hand clasping the strap of a nearly identical—though far newer—duffel and the other shoved unceremoniously into his pocket. On her other side, Zoë, poring intently over a road map, acted as though he weren't there at all.

"In case this is new to you, Apollo, I am always going on 'camping trips.' Also—I don't camp. I hunt."

"You usually go hunting with _all_ your girls," Apollo pointed out, as if that were a great revelation. Artemis rolled her eyes.

"And?"  
>"This time you and Zoë are going alone." Apollo's voice was a study in nonchalance—if Artemis hadn't been so good at reading him, she would've missed the underlying... <em>something.<em>

(Putting a name to the 'something' scared her, and Artemis hated being scared.)

"So?" She raised one of her eyebrows at him, matching his tone perfectly.

Zoë sighed, almost inaudibly, and the sound unnerved Artemis, because Zoë so very rarely interfered in her… arguments (was _arguments_ the right word?) with her brother.

"So," Apollo dragged out the word's one syllable rather like a smoker pulling on his cigarette, "I want in."  
>Artemis didn't even pretend to consider it. "No way."<p>

Feigning hurt—at least, she thought he was feigning it—Apollo said, "Is the idea so distasteful to you that you won't even think about it?"

"Quite frankly, yes," Zoë cut in, her voice sharp, and Artemis guessed that this was one of the rare moments in her and her brother's interactions when Zoë felt her input was needed, "Apollo, this is supposed to be—,"

"A girl's night out?" Apollo did not sound bored, just very close to it. "As if you don't have enough of those already."

Zoë drew breath. Artemis recognized the beginnings of what promised to be a prolonged tirade against men in general and her brother in particular, held up both her hands.

"Because I would _rather_ you two did not kill each other," she began, "I'm going to ask why, exactly, do you want to come, Apollo? If indeed you do want to come, and aren't just wasting our time." Although, considering the duffel, the second, simpler explanation did not seem very likely ...

Zoë pinched the bridge of her nose; Artemis laid a placating hand on her arm, lifting amber eyes to her brother's face.

She didn't expect him to answer truthfully—not in a million years - but maybe he would come close. _Maybe._

Apollo shrugged, a practiced vertical movement of narrow, boyish shoulders. "I thought that since the other girls aren't going and Miss Nightshade," here, he threw Zoë a flirtatious glance that rolled off of her like water, "is immune to my many charms, you might let me come." He hesitated for the briefest of moments, before adding, quietly, "It's been a while since I've talked to you—properly."

Zoë gave him an incredulous look that said she was _not_ buying that garbage.

However, Artemis was wondering privately how bad it would be if he did come. She and Zoë had done this before—they would drive cross-country, visit all the old haunts—and, truly, would it be so horrible if her brother joined them? The fact that she was deliberating must have shown on her face, because Apollo gave her the most irresistible puppy eyes she had ever seen.

Artemis exhaled loudly. "Fine. Fine—but I swear, Apollo, if you don't behave…"

"I'll behave," he promised quickly, gold eyes lighting up like an eager child's. Which he was, to some extent.

Zoë scowled and crossed her arms, throwing Apollo her best death glare—and Zoë's glares were impressive to begin with. "You had better, _Lord_ Apollo," she muttered, turning the title into either an insult or a challenge, "or I will personally see to it that you are dragged into the depths of Tartarus, Olympian or not."

It was a testament to the strength of their friendship, Artemis thought a little later, that Zoë had not really objected.

And as she watched her two bicker over radio stations - Zoë was driving, Apollo sat shotgun - Artemis allowed herself a quick, fleeting grin, because for the first time in thousands of years, the three of them were hunting together.

There were far more absurd—and less enjoyable—things than this trip was turning out to be.


	4. 006: First Meeting

**I Saw a Light**

**Prompt 006:**

**First Meeting**

**By MyPenIsSharperThanYourSword and Sister Grimm Erin  
>Text by Sister Grimm Erin<strong>

"_They will forget what you did, they'll forget what you said, but they will _never_ forget how you made them feel."_

_Ancient Persia, the Age of Heroes_

The girl left outside the garden was trying desperately not to sob, but her pain and loss were eating away at the tattered remnants of her pride.

Finally, the (_former)_ Hesperide gave into the tears of rage and loathing and betrayal. There was absolutely nothing left to her and therefore no one to care except herself if she sobbed as though she were Niobe. And she found that her exile was beginning to eat away at all sense of shame, as well.

She was homeless now, stripped of everything about herself but a white chiton soaked with blood. She had not even a name left to her—Atisa, daughter of Atlas and Pleione, guardian of Mount Othrys, was dead and gone, had never even lived as far as her family or _the hero_ were concerned.

Perhaps she should complete her erasure, the nameless girl thought as she looked around the desert. As her tears began to dry in the merciless, scorching wind, her fate became sickeningly apparent as she searched for something with which to accomplish the goal.

She was going to die out here, alone in the desert, because she was mortal now and prey to thirst for the first time in her two millennia of life. They had left her with no choices at all.

The thought made her angry. The anger, which had always been her weakness before, was now her saving grace, for it filled her with a new, spiteful desire to live. She managed—shakily—to sit up in the sand. She placed her hands as supports, and took a deep breath that hurt her cracked ribs. Ignoring the unfamiliar sensation of pain, she stood up on her feet and promptly fell back down. She bit her lip on a vile oath, and stood again. Another fall. She scrunched her face in determination, and stood again, arms hanging in the air.

This time, she was able to walk, shakily. One step. Another. It was nightfall now, but the heat of the sun would be upon her soon, and if she did not find some form of oasis by then, she would only be fulfilling her family's expectations. Very well, she was moving now, even if every step was agonizing.

She walked for what seemed like years, but it was to no avail. Soon as the sun began to rise, she crawled under the shelter of the one rock she had managed to find and waited to die. At least it would be of sunstroke and not thirst. Heat might be a better way to die.

To that end, the former nymph positioned herself to get most of the sun's rays onto her flesh and waited for the pain.

Eventually, the sun lulled her to a fitful sleep. She thanked her body for this last blessing, and closed her eyes, expecting it to be for the last time.

Instead, she heard a call a few scant moments later. "Sister!" called a youth's clear, melodic voice whose body her fevered eyes recognized only as a painfully bright golden presence. His fingers brushed her forehead briefly. "There's a girl here, and she's burning!"

Footsteps scratched at her ears, and a soothing source of silver light surrounded her senses.

"Help me heal her throat before you talk her ear off," said the second, equally melodic but female and peaceful, voice. Once again, the golden presence brushed her throat. The girl shuddered, and finally spoke.

"Who are you?" croaked the girl, gazing into both pairs of wide, seemingly guileless amber eyes.

"We are the children of Leto," spoke the silver presence as healing trance washed over their patient. "I am Artemis, and this is my brother—,"

"Apollo," cut in the male presence that sent golden energy down her arms and into her chest and lungs, so she could breathe. "We are sworn protectors of the young."

Before true, harmless exhaustion washed over the girl, she heard the question "Who are you, maiden?"

The girl hesitated, but then replied in a stronger voice, "Zoë. Zoë Nightshade." It meant life. Zoë said further, "I shall owe you both until the end of my days."

"They will be long days," teased the golden presence (_Apollo_), who she could now see was a comely youth bare of everything but a loincloth. Still, she was drawn to the silver presence more, who was a young girl with golden russet curls.

"You shall be immortal," explained Artemis. "We will protect you from sickness and old age, if only you stay with us."

"Always," promised now-Zoë.

The silver presence laid a kiss on her cheek, as the golden presence kissed the palm of her hand, sending her into a true healing sleep.

They had saved her from her death, and she could not repay them except with the same coin.

Someday, newly christened Zoë promised herself, she would do just that.

_For Project Pull. All feedback is greatly appreciated!_


	5. 053: Haunted

**I Saw a Light**

**Lovers 100 Prompt 053:**

**Haunted**

**By My Pen Is Sharper than Your Sword and Sister Grimm Erin**

* * *

><p><strong>X X X X X<strong>

There is an island, hidden far away from the eyes of mortal man, that has never moved.

This is the story of how it came to be—and why it remains.

**X X X X X**

When the Greek gods were forced to leave Greece for Rome, the move was unprecedented. Many of the nature spirits were in uproar over the relocation. Rooted to the trees and skies and rivers and oceans as they were, the nymphs and spirits clung to the land and sea of Greece.

After the initial panic died down, most eventually followed the gods they loved, albeit with much reluctance. There were a few, however, still grieved at the death of Pan, that simply stayed behind.

Most of the spirits lost what little separation they had from their homes; forests grew silent as trees began to forget the nymphs had ever been sentient.

But it is whispered among the few gods and spirits and creatures who still remember, and the even fewer mortals who know and still care, that there is a place, an island off the coast of Greece shrouded in Mist thick enough to fool a god from the distance, where the old spirits remain. What immortals and mortals alike have never even attempted to discover is why. Why did the spirits remain isolated and away from the world? Why did they never join the gods who had been their lovers and their children?

The answer is anger.

Even millennia later-if millennia even matters to these spirits-the spirits are still furious at the mortals for causing their decline and the disappearance of the Lord of the Wild. The whispers began when mortals who ventured on the island have never returned.

But they are even angrier at the Olympians for letting it happen. For forgetting what they owed to the land and to the sea.

Perhaps some gods have guessed it, for no immortal other than the current inhabitants had ever visited the island before this story begins. Gods would never admit to fear, but even the most foolish of them knows that there are fates worse than death.

But trees and rivers and oceans can wait a long time for revenge. They were cool and patient in their vengeance, but they had sworn among themselves long ago that the moment an Olympian dared set foot on their island, he would regret it.

* * *

><p><strong>X X X X X<strong>

_1928_

The god Apollo makes a pilgrimage to the island of Delphi every now and then. Nobody had ever really noticed-the gods are free to wander wherever they wish, and Apollo was even more prone to vanish for months at a time, particularly since the nineteenth century died. Two did not warrant even a shrug. Four was a mere idle speculation as to where he could be.

But when the sixth month passed with no word, the clairvoyants and prophets began searching for him.

Their answer-or lack thereof-threw the world of Olympus into a true panic.

After a day of fruitless scrying and spellcasting, the girl who had been the Oracle was found dead of no cause. She had a look of utmost fear and concentration upon her face, but other than that, she was unmarked. The god of medicine, in place of his father, declared her dead of a lack of air. But there had been no blockings of her throat. It was, as though, Asclepius said, she had simply decided not to breathe, without closing her lips or holding her breath.

Asclepius spoke to his friend Calliope, who spoke to her sometime lover Ares, who spoke to his father Zeus, who spoke to his wife Hera.

Hera's decision was that Artemis and her companions would search for her brother, as half-bloods could not take a quest without the Oracle. Because she was cross with her eldest child, she sent Ares rather than Hermes to notify the Hunters.

(Artemis had had no idea her brother was missing due to a particularly bad quarrel with him a month prior to his disappearance. Everyone who knew the twins knew better than to mention one to the other in hearing distance while they were still angry.)

Ares reluctantly complied, partially because he deferred to his mother more than he ever deferred to his father, and partially because he, too, was worried.

Unfortunately for the god of war, his reception at the Hunt was far from friendly.

**X X X X X**

Phoebe was pointing a crossbow at the god of war until she saw his face.

Then she went for her sword.

"I'm here on a friendly visit," Ares told the girl through gritted teeth. "Go get your leader or my sister if you don't believe me, before I _really_ lose my temper."

Without moving a muscle, the second-in-command elicited a sharp, piercing whistle.

An exasperated, overly formal voice groaned loudly. "I will be there momentarily, Phoebe. I do hope it's important."

The rustle of bedcovers echoed through the night air, then Zoë Nightshade, elegant, beautiful, and furious even at three A.M., walked to the edge of camp clad in an ivory chiffon robe.

"Lord Ares," breathed the nymph in surprise. Recovering, she said, "What is your business here?"

"Call off your guard dog, and I'll tell you," the god said, trying to recover the little patience he possessed.

Phoebe looked at Zoë's face, saw the order inherent in her glare, and skittered back to her tent.

When the girl had walked far enough away, Ares said, "No one's seen or heard from Apollo for months, and the seers cannot find him."

Zoë's eyes widened in alarm. "I'll make sure my Lady begins the search," she told him. "Are you sure he's in danger?"

"No," Ares admitted freely. "But I doubt one of his-," seeing Zoë's superficial youth, he edited, "trysts would last that long."

Zoë sighed tired agreement. "My Lady may be able to see something more once she tries. The twins have an empathy link of sorts."

"Tell me," Ares said wryly, "what was their fight about?"

With a glance back to the tent she'd just exited, Zoë lowered her voice and replied in an uncharacteristic moment of candor, "I lost track some centuries ago."

Ares chuckled. To his amused surprise and Zoë's consternation, the other tent flap opened and a much-disheveled goddess in a sheet walked out. "What did you lose track of, Princess Nightshade?" she half-yawned. Her eyes widened in alarm when she saw her eldest brother. "Is something wrong with Father?" she asked hurriedly. Belatedly, she clutched the sheet to herself and blushed.

Ares smirked at her discomfort briefly, then grew serious. "No, he's well enough except that well-my Mother-is in a temper about-oh, never mind," Ares said, cutting himself off. "It's your twin, Di," Ares said. "No one's seen nor heard of him for the past half a year. And his Oracle is dead, so we can't send half-bloods. Chiron and Hermes interrogated all the campers; they're certain now that it wasn't them and that no one let a monster in. But being without an Oracle means we need Apollo. The other seers have found nothing."

Artemis frowned her understanding. "Very well. Zoë and I will find him."

**X X X X X**


	6. 013: Kisses

**I Saw a Light**

**Lovers100 Prompt 013:**

**Kisses**

**By My Pen Is Sharper Than Your Sword and Sister Grimm Erin**

**Text by My Pen Is Sharper Than Your Sword**

"_**Love - bittersweet, irrepressible - loosens my limbs and I tremble."**_

_Sappho, to Atthis_

"It's been a while, hasn't it, Zoë Nightshade?" Apollo does not know why he is nervous; but he can't help but compare the poised, imperious young girl (young woman?) standing in front of him with the near-dead, almost-apparition he and his sister (but also he!) had found collapsed in the desert not so long ago.

Yes, he decides. It _is_ the change that is terrifying. She has transformed into something like Artemis herself, all grace and composure, but also not like Artemis, because Zoë's ageless eyes hold an infinite weariness that Artemis's do not, not even after Orion.

Apollo supposes, with remarkable insight for one with no personal experience of the phenomenon, that this is because, despite her eternally-youthful appearance, Zoë has done something Artemis has not: grown up.

(_Also, there is an air to her movements; they are not only graceful but queenly – and this, he knows, has nothing to do with Artemis, because pride cannot be imitated; it is intrinsic to one's nature._)

And perhaps this is why Phoebus Apollo is frightened of Zoë Nightshade: she is reminded of everything he ought to be and yet is not.

(_Also, he has always been a little intimidated by beautiful girls. But you will never hear him say this aloud.)_

The haughty look in her eyes as she peruses him up and down sends a tingle down her spine; he blinks to erase the sudden, vivid image of _just what he would do_ to remove that look from her face. He eases his own into a smile: the same sort of smile that nearly charmed Callisto from Zeus's arms into his own and had Daphne running for cover, and he drawls, "You don't like me much, do you, Zoë?"

This girl doesn't move a muscle.

"No, my lord," she says, cool as you please, and her manner immediately does away with any vestiges of pleasure he may have felt at her use of 'my lord'.

(_And belatedly, he realizes that anyone else would have addressed him in the exact same way._)

Hardly a minute into their 'conversation' and he is already tongue-tied – he, Phoebus Apollo, Python-Slayer, Protector of Delphi, Smooth-Talker Extraordinaire – is at a loss for words while trying to talk to a girl.

(_Later, when he meets Cassandra, he will find this occurrence becoming more and more likely, but for now, he is hopelessly new to the feeling__._)

(_Later, when he meets Cassandra, she will laugh every time he loses his footing and extend a hand to help him back up and press an apology to his lips when only moments before she had been mocking him._)

(_But this girl doesn't move a muscle._)

(_And if he ever has the misfortune to fall in front of Zoë (and he will), she will cross her arms and tap her foot and look down her nose at him and demand that he "get up, Phoebus Apollo, or so help me I will leave you here to rot"; there will be no "my lord," and "Master Apollo," because they will be past formalities and he will have been through a thousand humbling situations with her._)

(_She will have been through only one._)

In the beginning, she would follow Artemis everywhere. Apollo (with his love for ever-changing companionship) did not understand why he was prone to following Zoë with his eyes.

(_He told himself he was looking at Artemis – when Ares received this answer he laughed so hard the ceiling shook, clapped Apollo (forcefully) on the back and left, shoulders still shaking with mirth. With all his foresight, Apollo hadn't the slightest idea what was so funny._)

(_Foresight is blind, he will say, later._)

In the beginning, she would follow Artemis everywhere, defer to her every word, and yield to her in every motion. There were a lot of grateful looks and generous gestures and limpid gazes and quaint hand-holding and Apollo didn't know whether to be sick of it or ask to join them.

(_The thought of Ares' reaction snipped the latter notion in the bud._)

When Artemis asks him, once, why he so doggedly pursues Zoë although she has turned him down, time and time again, he has two honest answers:

_1.) Because she is the best way to get to you (and indeed she is)_

_2.) I saved her too (and he has always felt the slightest bit possessive over this tall, caramel-skinned young girl (young woman?) with the infinite weariness in her ageless eyes and who is the only person he has ever met who has made him wonder: maybe I _should_ grow up.)_

But instead he relishes the jealousy in Artemis's tone and gives her an answer along the lines of "because she'll never have me," and this placates Artemis enough for Apollo to continue returning, in between conquests and failures, to banter with the immovable Zoë Nightshade, time and time again: and find out whether she will give him a different answer this time around.

* * *

><p>And in the end, there was no cheating or lying or manipulation involved.<p>

Not much of it, anyway.

* * *

><p>Artemis is Diana and Apollo is … Apollo, but damn it if he isn't more sensible and disciplined and generally less of a wild-card, all around. Sometimes he wonders if any of the other Olympians find their new personalities restrictive, too. Ares, he knows, is in his element (hail Mars, patron of Rome!), and while it took Athena and Hera a while to overcome the slight of <em>Aphrodite's son from Troy<em> being the forefather of the next great empire …

Privately, Apollo thinks the added sternness does not suit Athena. As Minerva, she has transformed from somewhat icy to a human (godly) glacier.

They've all grown into their new roles, though, even Hermes, with his added jobs and duties – but sometimes Apollo is glad when he can stand in front of the mirror and shed his Roman aspect (like the skin of a Python) and watch the hard jaw and sharp angles soften into the smooth curved planes of the Grecian youth he is and always will be.

There are upsides, of course - there always are. Because Apollo does not flaunt his charms (as much) as he used to, Artemis has taken to trusting him more around her Huntresses, and they, in turn, witnessing this (_strange, new_) change, treat him with more deference in respect, in place of mocking "my lords" and "Master Apollos".

Apollo can't pretend the smile of any pretty girl is unwelcome, but he is more grateful for the slight nod of Zoë Nightshade's head, or the slow upturning of her lips, or even – he assumes that abstinence (well, not really abstinence, more like restraint) has made him obsessive, and some days he feels guilty when he thinks of Artemis and how she is supposed to be the center of his universe.

(_She __**is**__ the center of his universe and always will be_)

but

(_sometimes she and Zoë Nightshade seem to be two sides of the same coin._)

And when Diana asks Apollo to escort the Huntresses to Mount Olympus (now hovering over the Senate in Rome) while she deals with some unfinished business, Apollo bows politely and agrees and doesn't say a single word out of line all day long.

As night falls and the Huntresses set up camp, Apollo sits to one side, eats in silence with his bow across his knees and valiantly volunteers for first watch.

(_Later, he will think that what happened next was the doing of a greater force rewarding him for his admirable behavior and generosity._)

(_Alternatively, the same force may have been playing a cosmic joke._)

(_Foresight is blind: hindsight is twenty-twenty._)

Because no sooner than he's settled himself near the campfire with his back against a tree and his bow within arm's reach, Zoë appears on the opposite side, setting her weapons within easy reach and sitting cross-legged across from him. Her lids are heavy with tiredness: her kohl has smudged around her eyes, but when she speaks in reply to his questioning eyebrow, her voice is clear and lucid.

"Camp policy," she informs him, "at least two members should be on guard duty," and Apollo nods his understanding. There is a moment of silence; Zoë casts a probing look around the camp periphery, her fingers stroking the fletching of an arrow.

"It's been a while, hasn't it?" Apollo asks conversationally: because he has every right to this conversation and he will be damned if he lets it go to waste. The words don't sound right, though, and he could bemoan the less-than-wonderful beginning, but this is Zoë Nightshade, and with her it doesn't matter how well (or otherwise) any conversation with him starts out.

She raises her eyebrows at him. "Since what? The last time you and I had an argument?"

Since the Olympians have moved to Rome there have been only cursory greetings between Artemis's Huntresses and Apollo: formalities in formal situations.

"I wouldn't call them arguments," Apollo says sheepishly, and Zoë cuts him off.

"I would," she says, and he thinks there is a hint of disappointment in her voice.

"I'm sorry," Apollo says, although he doesn't really know what he is apologizing for: just that he has somehow disappointed her almost before saying anything.

The look of surprise that crosses her face makes the bitter taste in his mouth worth it.

"It's all right," she says, almost wonderingly, those starry eyes coming to rest, almost hesitantly, on his face. She follows this up with something that sounds suspiciously like _maybe I was wrong about you_.

Apollo decides not to press her. Instead he asks, quietly, "How long have you followed my sister now, Zoë?"

Zoë plucks at her sleeves, the gesture coming off as almost nervous. For some reason the idea of a nervous Zoë causes excitement to spark in Apollo's throat.

"Nearly a thousand years now," she says, and the words are steady, almost remote.

"A thousand years," Apollo repeats, and he remembers again the half-dead waif he had found that day, because when push comes to shove, he saw her first.

"Lady Artemis has been good and generous to me," Zoë says, her voice burning with fierce loyalty.

Yes, of course she has, Apollo thinks. To inspire such _devotion_!

"And you don't regret following her, do you, Zoë?" he hopes he has succeeded in keeping the bitterness out of his voice.

The answer is immediate. "No, of course not. Why would I?"

"No, you wouldn't," Apollo says, evading the question, and gives her a smile before tilting his head back towards the sky. The stars in Orion's belt taunt him mercilessly, and so he focuses on Hercules instead: _you were a heartless bastard, but if you weren't, I wouldn't be sitting here with her today_ –

His musings are broken by a quiet, "Is everything all right?"

She is beautiful – and looks even more so as she is now, touched by the full moon, its rays bringing out the shine in her dark hair, throwing the contours of her face into sharp relief. Apollo idly wonders if he could persuade her to sit for a portrait – or better yet, convince her to accompany him to watch a sunrise, so he can see what she will look like ablaze with the light of the sun.

"I am glad you are here for my sister," he says, and this is not what he meant to say but it is honest, and every word rings with truth. He watches her eyes widen again, and resolves to tell her the truth more often just so that he can have the satisfaction of surprising her.

"You are?" she asks, and astonishment has taken some of the haughtiness from her voice; it is not gentle, but softer, and Apollo's face creases into a genuine smile as she lifts hers to his.

"I am," he says, "contrary to public appearances I love my sister a great deal." He tilts his head to one side, looking at her out of half-lidded eyes. "That means we have something in common, doesn't it?"

The look itself is subtle, the affection in the words even more so, and perhaps it is this, or the fact that she is trying to process that he might actually have a shred of decency, but Zoë does not stiffen or frown – instead, she meets his gaze, swallows, and looks away.

The slight convulsion of her throat clenches Apollo's stomach; he mentally berates himself.

"Yes," Zoë says finally, "yes, it does." She fiddles with her sleeves again, then picks up the arrow she had been playing with earlier. "She loves you too, you know," she says, and it is not the knowledge that Artemis has told Zoë this that surprises him but the admission of it.

His heart soars – and before he has thought he has asked, "And what about you, Zoë? What do you think of me?"

For a moment, he thinks he has undone everything he has accomplished so far; her eyes shutter, and she seems to withdraw. Apollo feels a rising sense of panic.

And then she speaks, and he is jolted out of his mental melt-down back to her. "What do I think of you, Lord Apollo?" He would have flinched at the 'Lord Apollo', had there been any malice in it. "Well, actually – most of the time I don't know what to think," she admits, and while this is not what he wants to hear, at least it is not a flat-out rejection. "I'm grateful to you for saving my life," here, Apollo feels another surge of happiness, "but mostly you have been immature and distracting and – I beg your pardon – so irritating that I find I don't like you much – at least during those times."

Apollo is now in so much turmoil he wishes he could stop feeling. "But?" he prompts, a little breathlessly, because there _has_ to be a but after all this.

"But," she enunciates, and looks him straight in the eye, "I believe that now I could get along with you better."

"And maybe learn to like me?" he asks, almost despairingly, and for the first time tonight, Zoë laughs.

"And perhaps even like you," she says, "after all, we are joined by a common cause, are we not?"

She means Artemis, and Apollo nods, because it would be a lie to deny this – but it would also be a lie to say that it is the only reason he would like for her to 'like' him.

It is a good thing he is no stranger to lying, because it is the beginning of an uneasy (on her part) and hopeful (on his) truce for both of them.

* * *

><p>In the beginning, she would follow Artemis everywhere. She still does; she will follow Artemis to the end of the world (as will he, if asked), but he has noticed she asks for alone time and solo missions now (and is granted them, too).<p>

Artemis's trust comes at a high price, Apollo knows, but he also knows Zoë would not dream of betraying her mistress. He likes to think she trusts him more now, though; on occasion they have run into each other in the forest, shared friendly words – and sometimes even the spoils of a hunt over a communal campfire.

Apollo is not sure if Zoë shares the accounts of her encounters with him in the forest – she probably does – but he knows there is one thing she has not.

Before the moment, Apollo used to think he would feel something akin to victory upon attaining it; later, he will realize the moment was attained that night spent keeping watch in the encampment, and that, while foresight (and therefore, expectation) is (are) blind, hindsight is twenty-twenty, and memories are always bittersweet.

He comes across Zoë twice after Hyacinth: once the morning after and once again on the same day the following year.

* * *

><p>The first meeting is brief, although her sympathetic face is a more welcome sight that Artemis's scornful one had been earlier when he had given her the news via Iris-message (when all is said and done, Artemis still hasn't forgiven him for the Orion incident).<p>

He has always wondered how Zoë seems to know when he truly loves someone – it is almost uncanny, and Apollo has come to dread her lectures on mending his ways almost as much as he dreads Artemis's.

There is no lecture forthcoming today, however; after she has heard the news, delivered through bloodless lips, she steps forward and draws him into an embrace: and his first move is instinctive; his arms come up and he lowers his head onto her shoulder – and for a moment he forgets that it is Zoë because although their builds are nothing alike, she feels just like Artemis. There is a heady scent of pine emanating from her – it is calming, soothing – and then he finds himself losing consciousness, and when he comes to, she is gone.

Instead, he is lying on the ground in the shadow of a pine tree, a little fire burning brightly beside him, and a note written in script just as elegant as she is.

It is unsigned, and he has never seen her handwriting before, but he knows, intuitively, that it is hers.

_Those who love you never leave you_

and, on the other side

_You will learn to love again_

* * *

><p>He does not know if it is chance that brings about the second meeting; later, he attributes it to the same omnipresent force that brought them together in the first place.<p>

(_Fate? Maybe_.)

(_But Apollo, like many of the Olympians, likes to believe in a higher power._)

It is just before sunrise, and he is restless, although he hasn't slept the entire night, tracking a doe he has been following for three days, simply for the mindless joy of **pursuit**.

(_Ares used to express surprise that Apollo hunted at all, deeming the activity too 'manly' for a 'prissy pretty boy' like Apollo: this was before Apollo pinned the other man to a tree with half-a-dozen arrows in quick succession and proceeded to teach Ares a thorough lesson. Thereafter, Ares began to comment that Apollo was 'not half-bad' as a teacher._)

The air is cool; there is a slight breeze ruffling the trees and the tracks are a clear, straight line, but somehow that doe manages to stay just out of reach. This only serves to make Apollo more determined to catch the damned beast; there is no better therapy that bringing down something that you felt was out of your control.

The first rays of the sun break over the horizon as Apollo reaches the edge of a clearing, just in time to see the doe, nearly half-way across and finally within range, fall to an arrow that arcs gracefully from atop a cliff-like rock formation on the far side. The archer is tall, slender, with caramel-colored skin and long dark hair down to her waist that has caught those early morning sunrays and is ablaze with their light.

The archer catches his eye; he sees her mouth open in an _oh_ of surprise and then she laughs, a clear ringing laugh that echoes around the clearing and straight into his heart.

"I'm sorry, Master Apollo," she says, and there is no mockery, only jest, "did I shoot down your quarry?"

He feels his face breaking into a grin: the sight of her, outlined in fiery gold, is enough to do either that or reduce one to tears. Unsurprisingly, he finds he has succumbed to both.

"You did," he calls, and his voice cracks on the second word; he swallows, continues, "but I find I don't mind so much!"

His lips press tightly together and he raises a hand to brush ineffectually at the tears streaking down his face. By this time he is standing in the middle of the clearing, looking up at her. The smile fades from her lips; she lowers her bow, leaping gracefully down and approaching him, slinging the bow over her shoulder.

She comes to a stop in front of him, perusing his face almost critically for a moment (and he is made acutely aware of the two-days-stubble roughening his cheeks and his unruly, windswept hair). Her mouth opens as if to say something; she thinks better of it, and instead, sets her hand on his shoulder.

"Help me with this doe and we'll have something to eat?"

She has the fire started and a spit set up in a matter of moments; part of the doe turns magically over the fire while the rest is packed (or sent) away equally mysteriously.

He notices that she seems to be avoiding his eye; she has busied herself with tidying her bag and seems hell bent on making this into the most engrossing task in the world.

The sun has fully risen now; Apollo can feel its warmth – and strength – flowing into his body, and suddenly, the lack of conversation is acutely unsettling.

"Isn't it coincidence," he says, "that I run into you today, just as I did last year?" He leaves the 'while I am grieving' out of the statement; his appearance is testament to that.

She ducks her head while stowing the same arrow into her quiver for the third time, warm red suffusing her cheeks.

Apollo's eyes widen. "Zoë?"

"It was only a coincidence last year," Zoë says, her voice almost inaudible.

"What do you mean?" Apollo asks, although he has a very good idea of what she means.

"I've been tracking you for two days," she informs him, still so quietly he, despite his amplified hearing, has to strain to hear. "I hazarded a guess at the doe's path," here she looks at him, just the slightest bit, "You would've done so, too, if you hadn't been preoccupied."

"Your faith in my skill is most uplifting," Apollo says, and his voice is husky.

She lifts her hands to cover her face, the bag tumbling, unheeded, to the ground; the gesture is so un-Zoë-like that in any other situation Apollo would have been alarmed.

But the thought _she sought me out_ is singing through his veins and instead of concerned inquiries (inquiries be damned!) he reaches out and pulls her towards him. There is the slightest of resistances and then none as he brings her so that her knees are against his.

Prying her hands from her face is slightly harder; but he wraps his fingers around her wrists and tilts his head to look her in the eye. She is trembling, strung tighter than a bow-string and she refuses to meet his gaze; Apollo sighs, and says, the way one might to a cornered animal,

"Zoë, look at me."

She looks, her eyes glistening with more than their usual shine and Apollo releases her wrists, cupping her face in both his hands, the slightly roughened pads of his thumbs catching against the smooth skin of her cheeks.

"I shouldn't be here," she says, "Lady Artemis - "

"But you are," he says, as quietly as he knows how. "But you _are_ here. Why did you come?"

She swallows, closes her eyes briefly: a single tear trickles down her cheek, and when she speaks, her voice is choked – but her eyes meet his unflinchingly.

"Because I did learn to like you," she tells him, and with the next breath, "better than I thought possible."

"And?" he prompts, instead of the _do you know how long I have wanted this?_ that he wants to say.

"I thought – I thought - " she tightens her lips, her eyes dropping instead to the hand she raises to rest against his cheek, tracing the line of his jaw: and now he is trembling – and before he has thought he has slipped a hand around the back of her neck and pressed his mouth to hers.

He feels her gasp against him and pulls back; her breath is coming in great shuddering heaves and for a moment he is frightened: "Did I hurt you, Zoë?"

When she shakes her head in dissent he bends over her again – slower this time, and as their lips meet she slides her arms around his neck, her eyes flickering shut. She tastes of cinnamon and tears; Apollo's free arm encircles her waist, drawing her closer, till she is sitting on his knees, her fingers nestled in his hair.

(_Afterward, he holds her against him while she cries into his shoulder, his forehead against her collarbone, her heart thumping wildly against his._)

(_Later, whenever Apollo stumbles upon cinnamon, his eyes burn with the memory of a stolen kiss: caramel-colored fingers against a roughened jaw, the fierce throb of two heartbeats beating in sync and the tang of salt and woody spice._)

(_Hindsight is bittersweet_.)


	7. 082: Ghosts

**I Saw a Light**

**Prompt 82: Ghosts**

**By My Pen Is Sharper Than Your Sword and Sister Grimm Erin**

**Text by My Pen Is Sharper Than Your Sword**

"Right here. Yes, that's right – down by the post box. Thank you so much."

Pleasantries – they roll easily off his tongue, as simple as breathing.

(Some things you don't have to think about.)

If human beings could go on autopilot, he muses, this is what it would be like: a blurry, unfocused world seen through eyes that are fixed somewhere else.

The taxi drives off (muffled engine roar growing slowly fainter), gravel crunching under tires used to easier, smoother roads, the powerful smell of gasoline and a cloud of smoke lingering in the air. He stands at the edge of an expanse of strawberry fields, gazing down at a big white house nestled in the valley, blue wraparound porch just a little faded – like a photo seen through a sepia filter.

He hefts his backpack over his shoulder, runs a hand through his (golden) hair and sets off toward the house.

He steps with his weight landing on his heels because the way forward is all downhill.

(It is automatic.)

He does not remember tumbling head-over-heels to the sound of silver laughter.

(He tries not to.)

The porch steps groan as he steps up them, a hand on the railing, mindful of splinters. It is not very far around the house, but he remembers gasping for breath and pounding footsteps against hollow wood planks and maybe it's relativity or a cosmic joke but those couple yards feel like several miles.

A white plastic picnic table is set up in the yard behind the house, standing in the shadow of a (n ancient) apple tree, a thin layer of dirt coating its (once immaculate) surface.

He is surprised the damage isn't greater.

(It's been years.)

(Although it hardly ever rained in this valley, he is surprised the damage isn't greater.)

He brushes – ineffectually, really – at one of the chairs – gives up, drops his backpack on the table and collapses – inelegantly, but he is past caring – in a chair, propping his head against his hand.

(He isn't sure why he has come here.)

(There is a soft breeze, and even though he is trying his best not to listen, he can hear laughter.)

* * *

><p>When her brother shows up, he has a playmate with him – a black-haired, gray-eyed boy she has never seen before. He is taller than her brother, and his face sparkles with the same boyish charm that has always danced in Apollo's eyes.<p>

She lets Apollo know that she and Zoë have been waiting far too long and that if he's ever this late again _I will never play with you again Phoebus Apollo and neither will Zoë so there_ –

-and her brother looks downhearted and his friend steps forward and says they're sorry and wouldn't it be better if she just forgave them?

And Artemis looks him up and down and smiles the sort of smile that usually has Apollo running for cover but this boy is new and he doesn't know what it means.

"Alright," she says sweetly, "we'll forgive you if you and Apollo play knight-and-princess with us."

Zoë grimaces and the boys shuffle their feet (although Apollo's face has lit up, again, at odds with his reluctance) but Artemis is persistent, so –

- so she is the princess locked up in a tower and Zoë (faithful Zoë, brave Zoë) is the surly dragon who wraps her tail around the princess -

- (_because I am never going to let you go, Lady Artemis_) –

- and, "I'll be the knight, won't I, Arty?" Apollo says, "and Orion can be the king - "

But his sister cuts him off, shaking her head, red-gold ringlets bouncing around her head, "No," she says, silver-green eyes settling, past him, on the black-haired boy, "I want Orion to be the knight."

And Apollo's face twists into an irritated scowl. "But Artemis," he says, little-boy-voice petulant, "I'm always the knight!"

Artemis crosses her arms and looks at him, eyes narrowing in a credible imitation of their older sister Athena's severe frown. "You owe me, Apollo, remember," she says, and behind her, Zoë sighs and examines her finger nails – and even further back, at the edge of the garden, the grown-ups talk business around the round plastic table underneath the apple tree, the slight thud of Atlas' fist audible even this far away – and Apollo nods stiffly and ignores the apologetic look Orion shoots his way.

(Sunlight glints off Apollo's golden head and if his hands clench into fists at his sides nobody notices.)

(And pretty soon he's completely immersed (and secretly he's always thought being the bad guy would be so cool) and even though he never meant to, his ears are ringing with the sound of his laughter.)

* * *

><p>"Don't be silly," the blonde, rosy-cheeked girl (who is in charge of event-planning and dating his older brother) giggles as she looks him up and down, an appreciative twinkle in her blue eyes (forget-me-nots, he thinks, like in the Arthur Hughes painting Father has in the drawing room). "Of course you can't take your twin sister to prom!"<p>

"Aw, but we do everything together," he says, lilting laughter in his tone (because this doesn't mean anything to him at all).

"Oh, come on, Apollo," the appreciative twinkle has given away to a deeply amused one. "Don't ruin your sister's evening with your protectiveness. Besides, Artemis already has a date for prom."

"She does?" He plucks at his shirt collar with careless fingers (oh, because this doesn't mean anything to him at all), and turns a mildly hurt expression on her. "She didn't tell me."

He forces a smile as her eyes crinkle and she laughs, informing him, between breathless gasps, that it was no wonder, considering his reaction.

"Zoë, I meant to ask you something." He ducks into the alcove where she is reading, drawing back the curtain and seating himself on the opposite end of the window seat. She draws her feet back to make room, slipping a bookmark into the pages of her book, giving him a slightly blank look. He looks at the book cover and back at her.

"The 'Bell Jar'?" His voice is questioning. "I didn't know you were a feminist."

"It's best to keep an open mind," Zoë murmurs, and then smiles. There is something off about the smile, he thinks, but before he can ask her if something is wrong she lifts her head. "You wanted to ask me something?"

He leans his head against the window, taking in the slightly wry quirk of her eyebrows, the stray lock of hair that has fallen into her face, the smooth curve of her jaw.

"Will you go to prom with me?" The words are easy, casual. He is not nervous and she knows it.

(There is no reason for him to be nervous.)

(Some things you don't have to think about.)

She taps her chin with one long, brown finger, a considering look in her eye. "Artemis is going with Orion."

"Oh, with Orion?" He pretends the words don't mean anything.

(He should've guessed.)

Zoë nods, still looking at him with that considering expression, and then her brow twists into a frown, "Is this a pity date, Phoebus Apollo? Because you think no one else will ask?"

"No, it's not," he tells her, and this is true, because if it isn't him it will be someone else.

(You see, she is beautiful.)

And then he arches an eyebrow at her. "Will it be a pity date, Zoë Nightshade, if you say yes?"

She tilts her head at him, pretending to look him over through her lashes, like she used to when they were kids playing knight-and-princess in the garden behind his family's summer house – and then she's laughing so hard she is bent double.

(And although he was so sure he wouldn't, soon, he too, is clutching his stomach, shaking with laughter.)

(And on prom night he holds Zoë close and listens when she asks him not to drink too much punch and pretends not to notice his-best-friend-turned-traitor twirling his sister an arm's breadth away.)

(It's not as hard as he thought it would be.)

* * *

><p>Artemis is radiant on her wedding day – pale cheeks flushed like star-flowers, silver-green eyes glowing. She looks so delicate in her white dress and veil – like spun glass, like he could crush her if he hugged her too hard.<p>

He is the worst best man in the history of best men, he thinks, as he offers his congratulations to Orion, but that isn't the half of it, because he's sure Zoë is the worst maid of honor in the history of maids-of-honor.

(The guests have put her tears down to overwhelming happiness, but Apollo saw the nail marks scored along her palms before she drew away from him.)

(But afterwards it is Zoë who kneels next to him on the carpeted parlor floor, Zoë who lays her cheek against his head and rocks him back and forth.)

(She smells like junipers. Apollo laughs.)

* * *

><p>He had told himself he was resigned to a life of disappointments, but nothing can erase the memory of the look on Artemis's face when he had stood, army beret in hand, and told her that her husband had died in service.<p>

* * *

><p>He leans against the flimsy plastic back of the dirt-caked white chair in the middle of an abandoned backyard and tells himself he doesn't remember what happened next.<p>

He leans against the flimsy plastic back of the dirt-caked white chair in the middle of an abandoned backyard and tells himself he cannot hear any haunting, ghostly laughter.

(Some things you just don't think about.)


	8. 018: Honesty

**I Saw a Light**

**Prompt 018:  
><strong>

**Honesty**

**By Penny of the Wild and Sister Grimm Erin**

**Text by Penny of the Wild**

_"No one can lie, no one can hide anything, when he looks directly into someone's eyes."_

"Do you know why we get along so well?" she asks. "It's because neither of us has something the other is afraid to lose."

She is holding his face in her hands; when he leans forward to rest his forehead against hers she feels a shiver race down her spine.

"If that were to change," she continues, her voice almost a whisper, "I'd hate you – and you would hate me … and after coming so far, that would be a shame, wouldn't it?"

His fingers, clasped loosely around the back of her neck, tighten slightly. She is still surprised by the slight roughness of his hands; they have always seemed so smooth, dainty – but she realizes that it was silly to believe they would be as soft as they looked – he is, after all, an archer.

His expression is wounded, and even though she has seen this expression numerous times before on account of others (Cassandra and Hyacinth are the most memorable), it still sends a pang through her heart.

"After a while," she says, closing her eyes briefly, "I began to wonder what it would be like if I had followed you instead of Lady Artemis."

"I would have taken care of you, too," he whispers fiercely, and she smiles, her eyes prickling.

"You would have tried," she says quietly, and falls silent, the wind blowing cold against her tearstained skin. It ruffles his hair, further tousling the already disheveled curls.

She thinks that despite his unkempt appearance – the shadow of stubble on his chin and the circles under his eyes – he has never looked more beautiful.

"Yes," he says, finally. "It would be a shame."

And then he stands, pulling her to her feet and tightly against him for a long moment. She feels him press a kiss into her hair and then he lets go, a pained little smile curving his mouth as he watches her gather her fallen equipment.

"Until we meet again," he tells her, and her breath catches in her throat.

Apollo grins in response to her expression, his eyes crinkling. "It's alright, Zoë. I am not going to hurt you."

He turns, slinging his bow over his shoulder. "Close your eyes," he tells her, and she does – and when she opens them again he is gone, and she is standing by the remains of their campfire with the taste of him still on her lips.

And the next (and every) time she sees him afterward she knows she would be lying if she said that she did not want to feel him wrap his arms around her or his mouth against her own: and from the slight flash in his gold eyes when they meet hers she knows he feels the same way.

And she supposes that, considering everything, that is enough. Because they both know that anything more will not be worth the consequences.

(_So they slide back into their banter and mocking repartee where she is the immovable Zoe Nightshade and he is Phoebus Apollo and Artemis Agrotera is the center of their universe._)

(_And there are no regrets._)

**Author's Note:** We were not going to post this, but the continuation seemed necessary to clarify Apollo and Zoë's relationship. I promised you all some Cassandra, and it's going to happen this week now that I'm on Spring Break. Really!

Enjoy and all your feedback is appreciated.

Love Always,

Erin and Penny.


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